Hands
by rosetyler39
Summary: This voice beckons him to leave the comforts of unconsciousness. But those hands… they also beckon him to stay. Short Oneshot from John's POV.
1. Chapter 1

Cool hands are stroking his wounded temple. Cool, inviting hands that are oh so familiar, but who do they belong to? Whose hands are they? Surely he wouldn't feel so comfortable if a stranger were handling him in such a way. These hands, he knows, belong to somebody he trusts.

"_John… hear me? Can… hear?… John!"_

John hears a voice echoing through his mind.

"…'_m here... open… eyes… wake up… need… wake up…_"

John's thoughts are swimming in blackness. He can hardly make sense out of these words.

Those hands… they are caressing his head. He feels safe. He feels peaceful.

"_John._"

He can hear his name. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He only wants those hands to caress his vulnerable form a little bit longer.

"_Don't be an idiot._"

Words are forming sentences. They come from a voice he knows. _He knows this voice_. That deep, baritone.

"_Open your eyes, John. Wake up._"

This voice beckons him to leave the comforts of unconsciousness.

But those hands… they also beckon him to stay.

"_Wake up, John._"

He hears these words clearly. They sound so desperate and scared. And yet, they are delivered so calmly.

"_Please._"

And this is when John decides he needs to wake up. He is needed. His eyes squint as they let some light filter through.

"_You can do it, John._"

The voice is so encouraging now. He fights the urge to slip back into unconsciousness. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows those cool, gentle hands will be there when he wakes up. He knows. _He knows_.

His eyes open a little bit more now, adjusting to the light.

He blinks once.

He has completely emerged from the blackness. Everything is blurry, including the newfound light.

He blinks twice.

A clearer picture starts to form. He can see the outline of a body.

"_Almost there, John._"

That voice. It is closer now.

A third time.

The blur has dissipated. He can now see things clearly. His eyes settle on one thing and one thing only. That familiar figure. That familiar face. That voice. Those hands. He knows now. He knows things are okay now. He knows he is safe, because he knows who owns those hands that are now squeezing him into a tight embrace.

"Hello John," the man says with a relieved smile.

John manages a weak smile.

"Hello, Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello sweeties! So, I got a review a couple of days ago on this ****fan fiction from a person who wanted me to add more to this story. And I went, "What the hell. Let's do it!" So, here you guys go. Another chapter. Enjoy!**

Panic

He observed as Sebastian Moran held John Watson in a choke hold, pressing the barrel of a gun right up against John's head, finger lingering over the trigger, ready to pull it at any moment and send bits of the good doctor's brain flying across the cold floor of the warehouse.

John had remained calm.

But Sherlock hadn't.

Panic

He heard the police break down the doors, cocking guns, ready to fire.

Panic

He watched as Moran crushed the butt of the gun forcefully against John's temple and ran.

Time stops.

John is falling.

Falling unconscious to the ground.

Bleeding temple, bruising…

_Catch him!_

Panic

Sherlock runs towards John's limply falling body, ignoring the fleeing Sebastian Moran.

The police will take care of him.

Time starts up again as Sherlock catches his unconscious blogger in his arms.

His blogger. His injured blogger.

Panic

"John, can you hear me? Can you hear me? John!" he shouts, gently stroking John's wounded temple.

_Oh God, wake up. Be okay. Please be okay._

He caresses John's head in both of his hands, as if he is trying to will the man out of unconsciousness.

Panic. He _realizes_ he's panicking.

_Calm down._

"John," he says, trying not to let his voice warble.

_Unresponsive. Still panicking. Act normal._

"Don't be an idiot."

_I'd rather he not hear me talk in such a cross manner. I care. I want him to know that._

_Still panicking._

_Calm down._

_Gentle now._

"Open your eyes John. Wake up."

_Still unresponsive._

_Still panicking._

_Please John. Please!_

"Wake up, John."

_He won't respond, dammit!_

_Be gentle._

_Let him know he's necessary._

_Beg._

_Plead._

_For John._

"Please."

The word sounds so foreign to him. And he realizes he rarely says it. Perhaps he's never said it.

John's eyelids pull apart.

_He's opening his eyes!_

Hope

_He needs encouragement. _

_He's struggling. _

"You can do it, John," he says, ever so softly.

Sherlock strokes his blogger's cheek, excitement surging through his veins as John's eyes open a little bit more.

Hope

_Coax him._

"Almost there, John," he says, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, forming a sort of twisted smile.

John's eyes are open.

The man blinks a few times, obviously concussed, as he is adjusting his eyes to the irritatingly bright light emanating from the ceiling, probably fighting against the pain of a headache and the urge to vomit.

His eyes settle on Sherlock, compelling the consulting detective to wrap him in a tight embrace. As he loosens his hold, Sherlock smiles down at John.

"Hello John," he says, his grin taking up his whole face.

John smiles back at him.

"Hello Sherlock."

Relief.


End file.
